


Punished

by orphan_account



Category: LazyTown
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Prolapse, Anal Sex, Attempted Murder, Be Careful What You Wish For, Beating, Begging, Blood Kink, Body Horror, Brain Damage, Cock Slut, Concussions, Corporal Punishment, Crack, Creampie, Daddy Issues, Don't Try This At Home, Elf Culture & Customs, Elf Sex, Elf Sportacus (LazyTown), Emetophilia, F slur, Face Punching, Face-Fucking, Father/Son Incest, Fear, Fetish, Forbidden, Fucked Up, Gay Bashing, Gay Panic, Gay Sex, Hate Crimes, Hate Sex, Head Injury, Homoeroticism, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Horniness, Horny Teenagers, Impregnation, Incest, Lazycity, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mild Gore, NSFW, Near Death, Nipple Piercings, Nipple Play, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Spanking, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Out of Character, Piercings, Please Don't Kill Me, Polygamy, Power Play, Precum, Primitive Culture, Public Sex, Rape, Rape Fantasy, Rough Body Play, Rough Sex, Rutting, Sexual Repression, Sexual Violence, Shame, Size Kink, Slurs, Ultra Hardcore, Violence, Violent Sex, Vomiting, Whipping, cum kink, faggot, semen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-21 21:33:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13152468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sportacus goes through a massive rut and his repressed sexual orientation bubbles back to the surface. He considers going back to his horrifyingly homophobic village in an attempt to kindle previously unpursued flames and be granted a mental and sexual release, but he is greeted instead by his violently enraged father and similarly repressed village men acting vengefully in order to save their own reputations.





	1. introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Before more people shit their pants about this, I'm an underage gay man who has experienced significant sexual trauma in my life. This is all projection due to my sense of sexuality becoming hopelessly intermingled with the sexual violence I have endured. I do not condone pedophilia, rape, or incest, although all have been inflicted on me. Viewer discretion is advised.

Sportacus stared at his reflection in the mirror above his bed. Holding his own gaze, the elf opened his mouth, exposing pearly fluid which had settled in the back of his throat and coated his teeth. His cock twitched at the sight. _Such a slutty, cum-gargling faggot._ He felt his face reddening at the thought, his ears burning to a crisp.

 

It wasn’t that Sportacus reveled in being a cum-slut, exactly… no, scratch that. He _absolutely_ did. It drove him wild to be degraded and disrespected in such a manner, being marked as territory with no regard for his own thoughts… the elf allowed his hands to roam freely over his own body, tweaking his pierced nipples. His similarly pierced navel drew up on his abdomen as his toes curled, nipples entirely stiff.

 

It wasn’t satisfactory to have his own cum in his mouth, though, he decided, clicking his teeth together and swallowing the seed. He was already unbearably hard again, his dick leaking precum clouded with especially potent sperm.

 

Ruts were hard for any elf going through them, and they were especially difficult for Sportacus. He had the sole responsibility for an entire town’s safety -- Lazytown's, to be precise -- and he had a reputation to keep up. His sexual feelings had to take the backseat, but when he was rutting, they were anywhere _but_ the backseat. In fact, they were in the forefront of his mind for thirty days a year.

 

It didn’t help that the elf’s body wasn’t cooperative, either. Though Sportacus produced massive amounts of potent sperm during these trying times, and his phallus grew a knot near its base, all his brain wanted was a dick up the ass. He was unequivocally gay, and it was possibly the biggest secret he had ever kept. Hiding homosexuality in his home village, one that entirely accepted traditional elf culture, was difficult. Repressed homosexuality and 24/7 nudism didn’t exactly mix well, and lack of gay acceptance wasn’t a useful ingredient.

 

In truth, Sportacus had packed up and left his home village to avoid his impending political responsibilities. His father was the village headman, just as his grandfather and great-grandfather had been. And, once becoming sixteen, the eldest male descendant of the village chief was to assume his roles, one of which was the impregnation of every female, older than sixteen but younger than thirty-five, in the village. It was required to occur every year during heat season, each woman being knotted at least four times to ensure maximum success rates. Needless to say, there was no way in the names of the Gods that Sportacus could bring himself to do it.

 

He writhed in agony thinking about some of the men in his village. Þórleifur, a man seven years his elder, with his washboard abs, and Önundur, barely twenty, with his massive, girthy cock. The thought of having the younger Önundur sliding his length into Sport’s hole -- with the characteristic energy and excitement of a young buck -- sent him over the edge, semen splattering as far up as his chin, clinging to his whiskers.

 

The elf massaged his taint and moaned, passing his middle finger over his achingly vacant hole. His cock twitched violently as a last spurt of cum drooled onto his stomach, pooling in his navel. From a completely logical point of view, Sportacus needed to go back to his village like a hole in the head, and quite frankly, it was entirely possible that he would receive a hole in the head. But his cock had complete control of his brain, and he managed to burble out a command to his ship before ejaculating once more. He was on his way, whether it was for better or for worse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sportacus makes contact with his estranged father (and it goes exactly how you would expect).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before more people shit their pants about this, I'm an underage gay man who has experienced significant sexual trauma in my life. This is all projection due to my sense of sexuality becoming hopelessly intermingled with the sexual violence I have endured. I do not condone pedophilia, rape, or incest, although all have been inflicted on me. Viewer discretion is advised.

It had been a harrowing two days in the air, Sportacus needing release every six or seven minutes. His cockhead felt raw against his foreskin and more precum dribbled out as he lay on his bed in a pool of sweat and agony. The elf’s entire body tensed as he gripped the bedsheets and cried out, semen spurting out beneath his body and into his comforter. He could hardly sleep, and when he was able to, his sexual fantasies followed him into his dreams. Both nights were sprinkled with sporadic rest, no more than thirty minutes at a time.

 

“Sportacus, you have arrived,” His computer chirped. Sportacus pushed himself up, still as hard as a rock, and his sheets stuck to him, saturated with sweat, drool and seed. His tender and swollen balls ached with every step he took, but the elf still managed to reach the ladder port of his airship with relative ease. He began his journey down, entirely nude, with nothing driving him but pure adrenaline and sexual need.

 

The first face he saw when his toes hit the grass was his father’s. The two looked nearly like twins, and it wasn’t all that surprising, considering elven incest could occur with little to no genetic consequences. “I see you have finally come to fulfill your duties,” Íþróttaálfurinn snipped, crossing his impossibly muscular arms. “It’s about time, you know. I was beginning to worry that you ran off to live with the fairies and become a _sæði elskandi vændiskona.”_ His pecs bounced, and Sportacus’s heart leapt into his throat.

 

 _“Pabbi,_ I’m no prostitute,” He murmured, his cock twitching as his taller father approached him. “I’m not like that, I swear. I need…” The elf trailed off as his father’s thick musk wafted into his nostrils. He moaned.

 

“I’ve known you were a faggot, _sonur._ It’s not difficult to tell that you want to gargle sperm in the back of your throat. Those studs through your nipples and that ring in your navel. You’re sick.” Íþrótt pushed his son, the younger man toppling back into the grass. He drew saliva from his throat with a nasty noise and spit onto Sportacus, drawing his foot back and kicking his groin. Sportacus wailed and curled up, pain stabbing into his abdomen.

 

“The village men are going to have fun with you. They’re all frustrated because I’m the one helping their wives and daughters bear children.” He stared down at his writhing son, no emotion present on his face. “Since you have decided to render yourself useless in this community, they will treat you as such. Useless.” The older elf wound up his leg again before hurling his foot against his son’s spine, causing him to gasp and curl back. “I have work to do, _skíthöfuð.”_ He hissed, leaving his eldest -- and most hated -- son alone, sweating and groaning.

 

Sweat trickled down Sportacus’s face as he watched his father leave. Coming back was probably the worst idea he could’ve thought up, but his groin dared to disagree. His cock, which throbbed in time with the fresh injury against his spine, was leaking precum. He rolled onto his stomach to conceal his shame as the muscles below his balls contracted again, shooting more potent sperm into the dirt at point-blank range.

 

Sportacus curled up, pulling his legs up beneath his sticky and mortified self, and cried.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sportacus gets the shit beat out of him for being gay. And the guys doing it are possibly (probably) homophobic gay men themselves. That's all. (But the story's not done! There's plenty more suffering to go around.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before more people shit their pants about this, I'm an underage gay man who has experienced significant sexual trauma in my life. This is all projection due to my sense of sexuality becoming hopelessly intermingled with the sexual violence I have endured. I do not condone pedophilia, rape, or incest, although all have been inflicted on me. Viewer discretion is advised.

It hadn’t been a minute before Sportacus heard the rumbling voices of men. He had actually smelled their scent before any of his other senses had kicked in. The thick, pungent musk of sweat and testosterone swirled pleasantly in his nostrils just as it had so many years ago, but it did little to soothe his anxiety. Adrenaline still pumped violently through the elf’s body, and he tried to curl himself tighter inwards.

 

“Look, the little _gæra_ has returned,” Growled an elf above him, eliciting fitful laughter from the surrounding men. “Last time I saw you, _druslan,_ you had that other faggot’s fingers three knuckles deep in your ass.” He snorted loudly, and Sportacus felt saliva land on his back. “We’ll give you what you really want, _ógeðslegur tíkur.”_ Sportacus flinched as he felt a foot, and then another, collide with his bare ass. He didn’t allow himself to do more than flinch, his erection building up once again.

 

The elf felt a presence coming down over him, and soon, he felt the cold flesh of a hand on his back, rolling him onto his back. He covered his face instinctively, but not before a fist was brought down upon his face, knuckles making contact below his right eye. Sportacus cried out as more punches rained down upon his face, writhing beneath the unrelenting elf above him. Önundur. It made him sick to know that somebody he loved so dearly could hurt him like this.

 

After the hail of punches had finished, he felt toes connecting with his sides, his ribs stinging as he was kicked. Sportacus screamed and cried, the taste of iron filling his mouth, but he was held immobile -- somebody was holding down his arms and legs.

 

Just seconds later, his legs were released, but not before a heel came down onto his nose, undoubtedly shattering the bone. Blood gushed from it, and Sportacus gasped, a blood curdling scream escaping him before a gurgling plea came from his bloody mouth. “Please don’t kill me, oh Gods!” He wailed, incessant blows being dealt to both of his temples by unyielding feet. One side, the other side, one side, the other side… Sportacus coughed and gagged as his brain was tossed around in his skull.

 

“Beg me for what you want, faggot!” Önundur shouted, punching Sportacus in his stomach. The older elf curled inward slightly, fear in his eyes as he gagged again. “Beg us to leave our sperm in your disgusting, useless asshole!” Önundur’s fist was thrust into Sportacus’s chin, and he was knocked back into the other elves’ line of fire.

 

“Give it to me!” Sportacus shrieked, his muscles unbearably tight as feet pounded his head and ribs. “Oh Gods, Önundur, leave your semen deep in me!” It was all the consent the younger elf needed, and he positioned himself, gripping Sportacus’s hips and thrusting in.

 

The sting was unbearable, but Sportacus could hardly tell it was there through the searing pain in his head. The only thing affirming that he was being penetrated was the signature rocking of his body and the grunting of an aroused man above him. The world was spinning out of control as he felt his nipple studs being gripped.

 

No. _No._ Sportacus howled as they were ripped out, and finally, as sexual release was granted to him, mercy was as well. He blacked out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sportacus gets more shit beat out of him. Perhaps this is symbolic, in a way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before more people shit their pants about this, I'm an underage gay man who has experienced significant sexual trauma in my life. This is all projection due to my sense of sexuality becoming hopelessly intermingled with the sexual violence I have endured. I do not condone pedophilia, rape, or incest, although all have been inflicted on me. Viewer discretion is advised.

Sportacus awoke to his anus burning, with another elf, moaning gutturally, hunched over him. He groaned as the man penetrating him pressed deeper, hitting his prostate. The much older elf brought a calloused hand down upon Sportacus’s face, striking him with enough force to crack his neck. He could barely hear the murmurs of bastarður and gagnslaus around him as his ears rang, but he could feel the pressure of hands on his chest, squeezing at the fresh wounds he was left with.

 

Sportacus whined feebly as tears sprung into his eyes. He visibly cringed and kicked his legs, still half inebriated by the pain in his head, and the elf was rolled roughly onto his back by brutal hands before he felt feet begin to pummel him again, blunt force striking his arms and legs and buttocks. He was bruised to the bone and couldn’t even move enough to sit up. So, like the perfectly submissive lamb he was always meant to be, he sat there and soaked up the blows, reveling in the shooting pain in his ribs and the dull ache in his head. So this was what it was like to die.

 

It didn’t take long for him to vomit, then, his already empty stomach emptying itself further. Juices spewed onto the grass as he retched and gagged, stomach acid seeping into the dirt. His display of disrespect earned him a kick in the head from his own father’s foot.

 

“I’ll give you something to choke on, hóra,” Íþróttaálfurinn spat, kneeling in the grass and wrenching his son’s jaw open with large and demanding fingers. “Someone take him from behind, he needs to learn that he’s defective.” Sportacus’s eyes were practically bruised shut, but he could just barely see a cock, throbbing and not yet knotted, sitting right in front of his nose.

 

It wasn’t more than a second before the elf felt his father push himself throat deep, triggering his gag reflex. As Sportacus heaved again, his father held his head in place with meaty, muscular hands, fingertips digging into his son’s skull. The younger elf’s stomach again churned, but this time, acid spewed from his nose. It had no other place to go, after all. Vomit dripped down into Íþróttaálfurinn’s pubes, and he withdrew his left hand only to punch Sportacus in the forehead.

 

“I would expect a faggot to have more stamina!” Íþrótt boomed, nostrils flaring as he unseated his cock from his son’s mouth, drool and vomit running out of his mouth like a showerhead. He kicked his son in the chin and took the rear, shoving the other elf out of the way. Íþrótt mounted Sportacus quickly, driving in as deeply as he could.

 

Sportacus let himself go limp as his father took advantage of him. He couldn’t feel his own orgasms any longer, and only knew of their presence because of the distinctly warm wetness on his belly. It hurt so much, but Sportacus couldn’t breathe, a sharpness preventing his lungs from expanding completely.

 

His brain was foggy, and he couldn’t think any longer, so he decided not to, allowing his consciousness to slip from his head as his body endured the pain.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm after the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before more people shit their pants about this, I'm an underage gay man who has experienced significant sexual trauma in my life. This is all projection due to my sense of sexuality becoming hopelessly intermingled with the sexual violence I have endured. I do not condone pedophilia, rape, or incest, although all have been inflicted on me. Viewer discretion is advised.

Sportacus only became entirely conscious several hours later, his damaged and broken body creaking as he attempted to pull himself up. It didn’t work, and the elf lay in the grass, his body saturated with blood, saliva, and semen. He couldn’t breathe through anywhere but his mouth, and even then, he couldn’t get a full breath. There were at least five broken ribs in his chest.

 

His gut felt tight, and his stomach tensed at the discomfort. Six of his fingers were broken, his left hand having suffered the worst. Only his thumb remained in tact there, but on his right hand, his index and middle fingers were the only ones to have been fractured. Crusted vomit sat below his nose. The pain was nauseating, especially in his groin area.

 

It took an overwhelming amount of strength for Sportacus to allow his less-shattered hand down below his waistline, and the elf gagged as he touched his anus. It was pulverized, and had unsurprisingly prolapsed.

 

When he drew back his fingers and saw the blood and cum coating them, he vomited again, chunks spewing into the grass, stomach acid burning into his split lip.

 

Sportacus sat for a long while, resting his head in the bile. He couldn’t move.

 

He didn’t move for two more hours.

 

It was only when he heard the footsteps of his father again that he moved, dragging himself up with fear in his eyes. Sportacus’s heartbeat picked up, moving in cut time, as he watched his father’s figure approach. The elf couldn’t help it when tears sprung up from his eyes as his body quaked.

 

“Hush, elskan, pabbi’s here,” Íþróttaálfurinn murmured, arms outstretched as Sportacus toppled backwards, desperately trying to get away from the man who had instigated his abuse since his birth. The younger elf’s left wrist bent unnaturally, however, and he had to pause, fearing he would worsen the already horrendous break.

 

Íþrótt bent down to let a hand travel from his son’s waist, to his hip, and down past his thighs. The older elf rolled Sportacus onto his stomach, gently, yet his son still cried out in panic and pain. Íþróttaálfurinn caressed the other’s thighs lightly, travelling upwards before squeezing his son’s buttocks.

 

Sportacus’s heart pounded in his ears, and though his vision was clouded by ruptured blood vessels, he could still see his father’s remorseless grin as he turned his head.

 

Íþrótt spread the younger elf’s cheeks gently, and commanded him, “Suck in with your belly.” Sportacus did the best he could, and miraculously, with a gentle nudge from his father’s hand, his innards returned to their proper place.

 

Of course, every good action from his father was not without its downsides, and soon, Sportacus felt three probing fingers enter his abused hole, and he could nearly feel his father becoming erect once again. The younger elf’s stomach bunched with shame as his own cock twitched at the violation.

 

“I’m going to make love to you like I would to a beautiful elven broodmare, sonur,” Íþrótt murmured, his hand gently pumping in and out of his son. “Now listen closely. I’ll conquer you and bear my seed for your fertile womb to receive.” Sportacus’s length sputtered, drooling precum. It was a special treat to be treated humanely by his father, and an extra special treat to feel worshipped.

 

Sportacus’s brain flickered, his arousal, suddenly reawakened, rearing through his battered body. “As I fill your womanhood, you will grow rounded with my children,” Íþrótt spoke, softly and smoothly, leaning over his son. His ten inches lay atop Sportacus’s hole, twitching and veiny. “And for nine months after, your womb’s heaviness will serve as a reminder of your loyalty.” He pressed forward, nipping the nape of his son’s neck gently, before pressing himself in, the remaining mess of semen serving as adequate lubricant.

 

Sportacus moaned as his father pressed in, biting his lip as he immediately came. His balls twitched as Íþrótt slid in further, his pulsing cock shooting another cumshot. The younger elf allowed his eyes to roll back, his face still swollen and bruised, as his father gripped his chest -- his bloody, scabbed chest -- with strong, muscular hands, squeezing gently.

 

“I will have you fulfill your duty, one way or another, dýrmætur,” He whispered, “Whether that be by you bearing seed or you receiving seed.” Sportacus’s heart leapt into his throat as Íþróttaálfurinn grazed his teeth gently upon his ear.

 

When Íþrótt had buried himself to the hilt, he settled in, and he licked his lips. “Tense yourself around me, sonur. You must work for the privilege to bear my children.” Sportacus pressed his rear back against his father and whined, applying great focus to tightening his sphincter. His father raised himself to a kneeling position, cock still flush against his son’s ass, and gripped Sportacus’s waist, stroking his hip bones delicately.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn pulled himself back, his length withdrawing partially, but his son was soon to follow, using what little strength he had to push himself back, his father’s cock sinking completely into his backside once again.

 

In no time at all, Íþrótt’s balls began to twitch, hot, potent semen pouring into his son as he whimpered below the older elf. “I love your enthusiasm, elskan,” Íþrótt murmured, stroking his son’s bruised cheeks. “So eager and willing to be filled with my children.” Íþróttaálfurinn’s mustache twitched as he smirked, massaging his own balls.

 

Sportacus felt a welcomed (but very lonely) emptiness as his father’s length retreated, taking with it a few dribbles of stark white semen. “Pabbi,” He mumbled lamely, his anus aching at the recent withdrawal. He peered over his own shoulder, but his father had already left, a shadow in the dark, the only evidence of his genuinity being the semen leaking from his son’s beaten hole.


End file.
